Under the Harvest Moon
Under the harvest moon, When the soft-petaled flower Of the grass is all withered And brown, The harvester turns the earth And pulls the square grains, Continues the beats of the reaper’s tune— The dark of the land in the harvest Holds promise to rain.
What joy in picking a few nuts and corns! What joy with this innocent song of the birds! The ocean whirl of laughter, A longing for paths to freedom, And the joy of the freshly shaken earth.
- Carl Sandburg